Dead Man's Grip

pretty much like another, in his view. Sometimes the colour of the grass differed.
    The bespectacled American in the seat next to him was clutching his passport and landing card, which he had filled out.
    ‘Bumpy landing,’ he said, ‘huh?’
    Tooth ignored him. The man had tried to strike up a conversation the moment he’d first sat down last night and Tooth had ignored him then, too.
     
     
    Fifteen minutes later a turbaned immigration officer opened the UK passport up, glanced at the photograph of James John Robertson, brushed it across the scanner and handed it back to the man without a word. Just another British citizen returning home.
    Tooth walked through, then followed the signs to the baggage reclaim and exit. No one gave a second glance to the thin, diminutive, shaven-headed man who was dressed in a dark brown sports coat over a grey polo shirt, black jeans and black Cuban-heeled boots. He strode towards the green Customs channel, holding his small bag in one hand and a thick beige anorak folded over his arm.
    The Customs hall was empty. He clocked the two-way mirror above the stainless-steel examining benches as he walked through, passing the second-chance duty-free shop and out into the Arrivals Hall, into a sea of eager faces and a wall of placards bearing names. He scanned the faces, out of habit, but saw nothing familiar, no one looking particularly at him, nothing to be concerned about.
    He made his way to the Avis car rental desk. The woman checked his reservation.
    ‘You requested a small saloon, automatic, in a dark colour, Mr Robertson?’
    ‘Yes.’ He could do a good English accent.
    ‘Would you be interested in an upgrade?’
    ‘If I wanted a better model I’d have ordered one,’ he said flatly.
    She produced a form for him to sign, wrote down the details of his UK licence, then handed it back to him, along with an envelope with a registration number written on it in large black letters.
    ‘You’re all set. Keys are in here. Will you be returning it full?’
    Tooth shrugged. If his plans for the days ahead worked out the way he intended, and they usually did, the company would not be seeing the car again. He didn’t do rental returns.

42
    If there were no developments, the initial energy of any new major crime inquiry could fade fast. Roy Grace had always seen one of his essential duties as the SIO as being to keep his team focused and energized. You had to make them feel they were making progress.
    And in truth, if you didn’t get a quick, early resolution, many major crime inquiries became painstakingly long and drawn out. Too slow-moving for the brass in Malling House, who were always mindful of the press, their obligations to the community and the ever present shadow of crime statistics, as well as far too slow for the families of the victims. Days could quickly become weeks, and weeks would drag into months. And occasionally months could turn into years.
    One of his heroes, Arthur Conan Doyle, was once asked why, having trained as a doctor, he had turned to writing detective stories. His reply had been, ‘The basis of all good medical diagnosis is the precise and intelligent recognition and appreciation of minor differences. Is this not precisely what is required of a good detective?’
    He thought hard now about those words, as he sat with his team in the Monday morning briefing. Day six of the inquiry. 8.30 a.m. A wet, grey morning outside. A sense of frustration inside. It took Norman Potting to say what they were all feeling.
    ‘He’s vermin, this Ewan Preece. And he’s thick. We’re not dealing with someone smart. This is a cretin who lives off the slime at the bottom of the gene pool. My bogies are smarter than he is.’
    Bella Moy screwed up her face in disgust. ‘Thank you, Norman. So what’s your point, exactly?’
    ‘Just what I’ve said, Bella. That he’s not smart enough to hide – not for any length of time. Someone’ll shop him, if he isn’t spotted by a police officer before then. A reward of a hundred thousand dollars – the bugger doesn’t have a prayer.’
    ‘So you’re saying we should just wait, not bother with this line of enquiry?’ Bella dug into him harder.
    Potting pointed at a whiteboard, at the centre of which Ewan Preece’s name was written in large red letters and circled, with his prison mugshot pasted beside it. It showed a thin-faced young man. He had short, spiky hair, a scowling mouth that reminded Grace of a braying